


Kitchen Witch

by sparklyslug



Series: a spell that can't be broken (one drop should be enough) [2]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 02:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16484348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyslug/pseuds/sparklyslug
Summary: Before Prudence can worry what she’s letting show on her face (nothing, it should be nothing, she hopes it's nothing), Sabrina is laughing and extending the spoon out to Prudence.“Sorry, sorry, got carried away,” Sabrina says. “Want some?”“Disgusting,” Prudence says loftily.“It is not,” Sabrina says, offended. “What, worried about salmonella? Raw egg,” she adds, at the look on Prudence’s face. “It can make mortals sick.”“Of course it can,” Prudence says, taking the spoon from Sabrina’s hand and tracing a slow rune into the batter left in the bowl of the wooden spoon. “There’s almost nothing that doesn’t, praise Satan.”





	Kitchen Witch

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a series of unconnected Prudence/Sabrina ficls based on Witches of Inktober prompts by @stevieraedrawn. Fics can be read in any order.

Sabrina tricked her way into this secret of Prudence’s, just like she tricks her way into everything else. Pushing forward with determined stubborn do-gooder nonsense, past the point of reason or sanity, until the universe can’t help but bend itself to her whims and she gets what she wants.

 _I really_ , Prudence thinks dazedly, watching Sabrina’s eyes flutter closed as she wraps her lips around Prudence’s mixing spoon, making a happy low sound of contentment, _must stop rewarding her for this sort of behavior._

She never _intended_ to do any such thing, of course. And it all comes down to her own stupid failure to watch her surroundings. It happens, especially when she’s without her sisters, but that’s always been one of her weak spots (one of the few, one of the _very_ few). Normally, she’s aware enough, careful enough, to compensate.

“Prudence?” She had heard from behind her one night, and had turned quickly, without any grace at all, to see Sabrina standing in the door of the Academy’s kitchens. Sabrina. Of all the people to happen on her, with one of her most shameful secrets blatantly out and on display, of course it would be Sabrina.

But maybe Prudence could still have somehow salvaged the situation. If Sabrina’s ridiculously doe-like eyes hadn’t opened wide in delight, a grin stretching across her annoyingly elfin face.

“Prudence, are you _baking?”_

“Yes? So what?” Prudence had demanded, forgetting anything that might've resembled a strategy and not a little bit piqued by the surprise in Sabrina’s voice.

“Nothing,” Sabrina had laughed, a sweet bubbling sound of disbelief. “Just— I never imagined that as one of your skill sets. Not without blood or roadkill somehow involved, anyway.”

“Not one of my _skill sets_?” Prudence had hissed in outrage. As though whatever Prudence turned her hand to wouldn’t turn out _fantastically._ Swiping her hands clean of flour over her black satin negligee, she'd spun around to the cooling rack and snatched up one of her latest creations: a chocolate macaron so dark it almost seemed to absorb the flickering candlelight of the kitchen, the deep red-purple jam between its layers glistening as she thrust it under Sabrina’s nose. “Well why don’t you try it, and see?”

Sabrina took it, but hesitated. “This isn’t… this would be a really roundabout way to poison me.”

Prudence didn’t roll her eyes, but it was close. She hadn’t told Sabrina this, but she’d already found out that the half-breed metabolized most poisons at an alarming rate. It was incredible how trusting the girl was, when it came to her habitual cafeteria glass of pumpkin juice. She’d given up on poisoning Sabrina more than a month before, discouraged by an utter lack of results.

Not that she really consciously _tried_ to kill Sabrina very often, anymore. She didn’t really have the heart for it, apart from a sort of for-form’s-sake kind of thing. Besides, seeing Sabrina chug down enough belladonna to take down a horse, with no reaction other than an unladylike burp and a grin, had been among Prudence’s more alarming experiences.

“When I kill you,” Prudence had said easily, “give me credit for doing it with a _little_ more imagination.”

Sabrina _did_ roll her eyes. “Oh yes, because death by harrowing is so inventive.” And she bit down on the macaron.

Immediately, Sabrina’s eyes went wide. And she made— she— the _noise_ —

“ _Prudence,”_ Sabrina breathed. “These are… these are _amazing_.”

Prudence had slid her palms over her hips again, less because of the flour and more because they had unaccountably, mortifyingly, begun to sweat.

“Of course they are,” she said, sounding a little less composed to her own ears than she would have liked. Fortunately, Sabrina had been too busy licking jam off her fingers to notice.

_Licking. Jam._

“Can I have another one?” Sabrina had asked.

And that had been the beginning of the end, really.

Now, Sabrina seems to just…show up, whenever Prudence is in the kitchen. And the thing of it is, it’s not like Prudence does this _constantly_. It’s just a once in a while thing, when she has a translation she can’t crack, or Agnes has done something unaccountably spineless, or she can’t stop thinking about her mother stepping into the cold river and she feels hot with hatred and cold with that water rising over her head and she can’t help but want to close her hands around his neck and squeeze and squeeze and—

It’s not all the time. But it’s also not like anyone _uses_ this part of the kitchen anyway. Unseen Academy’s usual fare is served decidedly more on the…tartar end of things. These ovens are pristine, and barely touched, and if anyone has drawn near them over the entire time that Prudence has been a student here, she’s never seen them.

But now, Sabrina is _beating her_ to these nighttime baking sessions. As though she herself knows, perhaps before Prudence does.

And isn’t that a frightening thought?

Almost as frightening as the sensation of relief when Prudence conjures up a light and finds Sabrina already there, perched on the countertop and kicking her heels lightly, waiting for Prudence in the dark.

Now, Sabrina is making horrifying noises around a mouthful of brownie batter, and Prudence is just standing there, hands full of broken eggshells that she’s sure she was about to do _something_ with, and watching.

She’s always watching Sabrina.

Sabrina’s eyes open, and she flushes. Before Prudence can worry what she’s letting show on her face (nothing, it should be nothing, she hopes it's nothing), Sabrina is laughing and extending the spoon out to Prudence.

“Sorry, sorry, got carried away,” Sabrina says. “Want some?”

“Disgusting,” Prudence says loftily. She remembers that she was going to save the eggshells for spellwork, and carefully wraps them in a black handkerchief she’d left out on the counter for just this sort of thing.

“It is not,” Sabrina says, offended. “What, worried about salmonella? Raw egg,” she adds, at the look on Prudence’s face. “It can make mortals sick.”

“Of course it can,” Prudence says, taking the spoon from Sabrina’s hand and tracing a slow rune into the batter left in the bowl of the wooden spoon. “There’s almost nothing that doesn’t, praise Satan.”

“And yet they keep on trucking,” Sabrina says, eyes on Prudence’s slow progress through the batter. She follows the motion of the fingertip as it moves up to Prudence’s mouth.

“So I hear. Tragic.” Prudence says, and closes her lips around the traces of brownie batter.

It is good. All of Prudence’s baking is good. What’s better is how Sabrina’s eyes go dark— dark as spellcasting at midnight, dark as bad deeds done for the right reason, dark as looking across an open grave into Prudence’s eyes and saying _yes, yes I’m sure_.

Prudence wonders how that look would taste.

The way she thrills when Sabrina toes her way towards dark magic, how she aches when a complicated Latin spell trips off that butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth tongue, the electric thrum when they pace the halls of the Academy together as sisters, as a force, as something to fear and something to worship— that all comes as no surprise to Prudence. Lust, she knows. Lust is easy as breathing, and certainly more fun.

But this is ridiculous baggy pajamas at two in the morning. This is Sabrina’s messy silver hair, and the tight determined line of her mouth when she says something ridiculous meant to teach Prudence once of her little “lessons” about “morality.” This is wondering, well before she steps into the kitchen, what Sabrina might enjoy baking that night.

This is never ever thinking about poisoning her, anymore. Even for form’s sake.

So Prudence takes her finger out of her mouth, and she turns away from Sabrina, taking the prepared pan and sliding it into the oven. A quick murmured charm for a steady temperature and an even bake, and Prudence straightens, composed again, and turns back to Sabrina.

Who shows no sign of having been affected by anything that just happened, slippered feet tucked up under her and that worn fluffy bathrobe wrapped up tight under her chin. It’s absolutely absurd, how Prudence has been more affected by this _horrible_ bathrobe than she is by otherwordly creatures wearing infinitely less fabric. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Sabrina says. “Did you make that charm up yourself?”

Prudence shrugs. “It’s fairly old. Just needed some tweaking, since the recipe doesn’t call for any children.”

Sabrina snorts. “Sure.”

Prudence blinks at her.

Sabrina’s smile fades slowly. “Come on, seriously. Prudence?”

Prudence stops trying to hold back the smile, knowing that Sabrina still won’t find an answer in it. She swings herself up on to the counter, the empty bowl of batter safely between them, and carefully re-arranges the hem of her nightgown so that the black lace trim lies flat against her skin. Not particularly for modesty’s sake, she can admit. It’s more that it’s gratifying to see Sabrina’s eyes flash down to her thighs, that flash of hunger across her saintly face. She has to do _something_ while they wait; she hates to use magic to speed up her baking, she always feels like it tastes _wrong_ somehow.

“I have another question,” Sabrina says slowly. 

“Yes?” Prudence says, sweet as melted chocolate.

“Why don’t Agatha and Dorcas help you with this?”

Prudence flutters her eyelashes at her, hands still in her lap. “Oh, that is so cute. You actually think sampling all my ingredients and eating half the finished product is _helping_.”

“Come on,” Sabrina laughs, reaching out to actually _shove_ Prudence’s shoulder. With no more force than a kitten, but still, it’s the thought that counts. “You know what I meant. You guys are always together, so why not now?”

She could tell her the truth, and is shocked to realize that she almost wants to. To share that Agatha and Dorcas are bored by this, and don’t see the point. Potion making without purpose, a process with little to no magic— they’ve joined her sometimes over the years, and always trailed away early, off to find their own fun. Prudence doesn’t mind, though she does wonder sometimes why it doesn’t bore her the way it does them.

But she doesn’t actually share any of this, of course. There’s intrusion and then there’s _intrusion,_ and a few nights of late-night biscotti baking sessions doesn’t mean that she’s going to unlock the contents of her mind to someone who might be— Prudence is never sure, but she _might_ be— Prudence’s greatest adversary.

Her greatest… something, anyway.

So instead of _sharing_ , pouring out her earnest little heart like one of Sabrina’s little school chums, she tilts her head to one side and regards Sabrina with a small, vicious smile.

“No,” Prudence says, and thrills at the satisfaction of denying the all-powerful, all-righteous Sabrina, even if just in this small way. “I think you should tell me why _you_ are here. ‘Helping.’”

Sabrina almost laughs, Prudence can see it.

“If you’re looking for some sort of complicated motive, you’re not going to find it,” Sabrina says simply. “I just have a sweet tooth. Mortal thing,” she says, before Prudence can ask.

“Sounds obscene,” Prudence says, eyes flicking to Sabrina’s mouth unconsciously, to the press of white teeth against her pink bottom lip. She wonders which one of them is meant to be the “sweet” one, and wonders whether that sweetness would taste like sugar, like candy, or like— well, like something Prudence hasn’t been able to coax into existence in her late-night baking sessions.

“It’s not,” Sabrina says. And then laughs a little, throaty, that laugh that’s so at odds with how she’s such a dainty little thing. “Well, not automatically. But I guess it could be, if you’re into that.”

“Mmm,” Prudence says. “The lengths of desperation that they’re driven to, without magic to help them. Really, so very sad.”

Sabrina leans forward, the eager light of combat starting to glow in her eyes. It never takes much, and Prudence doesn’t wonder sometimes if Sabrina actually _tries_ to provoke Prudence into saying something that starts these fights, just so Sabrina can leap into battle with her shining honorable sword of righteousness blazing away.

“Seriously? You think mortals make this stuff up, because they can’t use magic during  _sex_?”

Prudence raises an eyebrow at her. “Of course,” she says smoothly, turning to inspect her fingernails, noting with a less artful frown that there appears to be quite a bit of butter stuck underneath the talons of her right hand. But, focusing again— “what other reason could there be for _half_ of the bizarre things mortals do in bed. Not,” she adds delicately. “That I would know.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Sabrina scoffs, and that gets Prudence’s eyes snapping up again, because if there’s one tone of Sabrina’s that she absolutely can’t stand— nails on a chalkboard, wail of a cat in heat, a fork dragged across a china plate— can’t _abide_ , it’s that tone of dismissal. “Why does there have to be a reason, mortal or witch? It feels good and people want it, so they find someone who it feels good for too, and they do it. Magic, licking melted chocolate off someone's body, whatever. It’s the same thing.”

Licking melted— Prudence clears her throat

Sabrina, really enjoying the train of argument she fancies she’s discovered, doesn’t seem to notice. “And anyway, when you get right down to it, the acts are the same, anyway. Magic can help, or whatever. But there’s not _that_ big of a difference.”

“Oh and you know, do you?” Prudence says, rediscovering her vocal chords, hoping that there’s nothing anywhere like a blush rising up her neck. “All your _vast_ sexual experience has taught you that much, hmm?”

She’d meant to shame Sabrina, meanly. Because Sabrina is a virgin and everyone knows it, because there’s not a lot about Sabrina’s life that hasn’t been circulated around the coven as petty gossip and the next best thing they all have to television. There’s some that Prudence has helped to spread herself, for the cache it’s given her as someone who _knows_ Sabrina or was _there_ when it happened. She could pity Sabrina for it, perhaps, if it wasn't for how often the gossip took on an  _admiring_ tone, no matter what Sabrina had done. And if Prudence hadn't spend so many years, not knowing who she was or where she came from, jealous for one sliver of the amount of notice or attention that others seemed to pay to the Spellman family. 

Anyway, it doesn't work. She’s never found a way to shame Sabrina, and she’s sure she never will. She’d find a poison that worked first, probably, before she found any way to bend that silver head. Sabrina gives a little shake of her head, acknowledging the hit with a rueful little smile. 

“No,” Sabrina says simply. “But it’s all just a matter of studying theory, isn’t it?” Her face brightens again, as another thought occurs to her. “You don’t know that your recipes will work, every time, when you’ve never made something before. But you’ve learned enough of the theory, of combining ingredients and methods and tastes, to have it turn out fantastically anyway.”

Prudence takes her in. It’s warm in the kitchen and there’s color in her cheeks and across her collarbones, where the bathrobe has fallen open to reveal the still hilariously-modest neckline of her flannel pajama top. Sabrina’s hair is a little mussed, a little spiky just on the right side, where Prudence suspects she accidentally combed flour through her hair while they were debating a point about gris-gris bags. She smells like chocolate, the way batter does before it’s cooked, when it’s still molten and warm and soft and a little heady, decadent and a bit dangerous, perhaps, if you have some sort of fear of raw eggs. Which is still, of course, ridiculous. 

“Sabrina,” Prudence says. “Are you saying that baking—” she gestures to herself, being sure to give Sabrina enough time to take in how close Prudence is leaning, and how _very_ impractical (she knows it is, she can admit it freely) her nightgown is, “—and sex,—” she gestures to Sabrina, fingers _this_ close to brushing against the underside of her chin “—are the same?”

She doesn’t actually want to kill Sabrina. She doesn’t want to hurt her, or shame her. None of those things, really. What she wants, what she _really_ wants, is to just see this: Sabrina, apprehensive, suddenly aware that she has potentially made a colossal mistake.

“Well,” Sabrina says, and Prudence _knows_ , hears it in her voice. Knows that the answer is _yes_ , and maybe has been _yes_ this whole time. “I was talking about theory.”

“We could talk about theory,” Prudence agrees, leaning in. “But what good is _talking_ about it, when you could be putting it into practice?”

Sabrina’s eyes go wide. She’s so— she’s so _beautiful_. Somehow never a word that Prudence thought to ascribe to her before, for all the time she’s thought of her, all the time she’s looked at her, the constant dwelling over what _is_ it about Sabrina Spellman. But there it is, she’s beautiful. It’s not something Prudence tends to think about anyone, really. And certainly not anyone wearing checkered pink flannel, with flour in their hair. But she is. Sabrina is beautiful.

And more than anything— more than tearing off that stupid bathrobe, more than sinking deep into that silver hair, more than gliding her hands over Sabrina’s body until she finds all the ways to make her arch up off that kitchen counter— she just wants to lean in and press her lips to Sabrina’s. That’s it, that's the desire so large that her chest aches with it, that she's suddenly unable to conceive of anything more important than being able to lean in for that kiss. And Prudence knows, at the same instant, that that small thing would shatter her utterly into a thousand bits.

Prudence, suddenly overwhelmed, bursts into laughter.

“Oh,” Sabrina says after a moment when Prudence shows no sign of stopping. “Ha ha, Prudence. Yes. Very funny.”

Sabrina's a little breathless, eyes bright with embarrassment maybe, but she's still smiling. And apparently determined to put herself back together, pulling the bathrobe shut across her chest again and crossing her arms over it. 

Prudence presses both hands to her stomach, the sound of her howls echoing around the grand kitchens, rebounding back to her and sounding impressively un-hysterical to her own ears.

Lords of Hell and every demon in it. This is very, very bad.

Prudence’s laughter eventually subsides into giggles, and then just a wheeze or two as she wipes tears from the corners of her eyes. Quickly inspecting her fingertips to see if her makeup has smeared (it hasn’t), she turns a smirk to Sabrina.

“Your _face_ ,” Prudence says, and Sabrina rolls her eyes.

“You’re such a bitch,” Sabrina says with a sigh.

“Hardly,” Prudence says, pushing herself off the counter and moving towards the oven to peer in at the brownies. “Seducing you and risk burning the brownies I’ve worked so hard on? _That_ would be true evil.”

“Ah yes, I definitely remember that being one of the Unholy Commandments,” Sabrina says to Prudence’s back.

“There, and Father says you don’t pay attention during lectures.”

Sabrina’s answering sputter is enough, and soon they’re off again about Blackwood and their classes and somehow eventually find their way to, some nonsense about classic horror films that Prudence has no experience of herself, but can still find a way to argue passionately in favor of zombies that _run_ instead of zombies that only shuffle.

All the more impressive because she’s barely listening to anything that she or Sabrina are saying at all.

She would have burned the brownies, is the thing. She wanted to. She _wanted_. And maybe, for a moment, Sabrina seemed…

It had been Prudence, who’d panicked. An unfamiliar feeling, and one that Prudence does not enjoy. She’d thought she’d been the one with all the “practice,” all the experience. But the thought of a _kiss_ had set her off, embarrassingly.

Well then, theory it would have to be, after all. Theory, and study, and if Sabrina thinks that this is another area she can best Prudence in, well— Prudence will just have to prove her wrong.

The brownies, when they come out, are decadent perfection. Marbled with caramel across the top, flaky and crisp at the corners, Sabrina hums at Prudence’s side with satisfaction, and Prudence’s hands clench involuntarily around the tray.

“First bite?” Prudence asks, offering her one of the still-slightly-too-hot squares.

“Why Prudence,” Sabrina says with a smile, “I absolutely would not dare. After you, please.”

Prudence laughs. “I _told_ you—”

“You’ve got plans for me, I know,” Sabrina snorts.

“I do,” Prudence says, and Sabrina seems to hold her breath, suddenly frozen under Prudence’s gaze. “I really think that I do.”

She raises the brownie to her mouth, and takes an eager bite.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I SWEAR the next Prudence/Sabrina thing I write will in no way involve nightgowns or bathrobes. I swear. Promise.


End file.
